


The Soldier and the Wolf

by Randomal98



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Confessions, Doctor!John, Drama, Eventual Johnlock, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Injured John, Injured Sherlock, Injury, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Medical, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD, Pain, Protective John, Romance, Secrets, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock Whump, Tragedy, Trauma, Werelock, Werewolf, Werewolf Sherlock, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6451207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomal98/pseuds/Randomal98
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The detective’s chest began to heave as his rib cage began to expand; bones crunching and knitting themselves back together. His skin began to rip and shred gorily, dark fur pushing out from within his body. His sleek and elegant trousers began to tear off under the strain of the dense muscle that began to build around his legs and torso. His hands morphed into massive paws, his nails growing into deadly sharp weapons and his feet growing as they too became a mixture of fur and claw. Sherlock let out a groan of agony as his facial structure and jaw started to change and snap into the shape of a muzzle. The detective’s screams soon mingled in with the deafening roars of a tortured wolf before finally, after several minutes of stomach-churning screaming, the room fell silent."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I've found myself searching for Werelock fanfics and I've never come across one that hits the nail on the head for me. So I decided to write one of my own that will hopefully satisfy my craving, along with others who might be in the same situation as myself.
> 
> Timeline: Takes place sometime after Scandal but before Baskerville.
> 
> Warnings: There will be some descriptions of injuries in early chapters and later chapters.
> 
> This is my first fanfiction that I've published so please be gentle with your feedback. Although, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! Enjoy!

The night was early. The blackening sky was already giving way to the brilliant moon and the stars; the miniature diamonds had just began to glimmer and shine in the night sky, reflecting brightly off of the city of London. Sherlock Holmes -the world's only consulting detective- stood by the window in 221B Baker Street as he anxiously waited for his flatmate, John Watson, to leave for his date tonight; God, he wished he would hurry up.

John stomped down the stairs, cursing under his breath and checking his phone once more. “Shut that bloody window, will you? It’s freezing!” the doctor snapped at the detective, going to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

“What?” Sherlock panted lightly. “It’s far too warm...” he mumbled to himself as he opened it further, sticking his head out slightly in an attempt to cool himself down.

John groaned and turned back into the living room, pushing Sherlock back and pulling the window shut. The ex-army doctor kept his hand on Sherlock’s back for a moment, brow furrowing in concern when he felt the heat radiating off of him. “Got a fever or something?”

“Something like that..." Sherlock lied as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

John bit his lip and sighed, plopping down on the couch, turning back to Sherlock. "Well lucky for you, I'll be home to take care of you tonight. Audrey cancelled." he muttered, glancing at his phone once again and tossing it on the coffee table with a sigh.

The detective’s body froze at the sudden information, his eyes drifting back to John with worry. “No, I’m pretty sure you just read it wrong.” he attempted to persuade.

John narrowed his eyes at him in confusion. "No, I read it right. She’s found someone better, it seems. Didn't even bother to call, just sent a text. Third time that's happened to me this month." he grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face, before frowning. “And since when have you cared about my love life?”

"Then meet up with Lestrade for a beer hmm?" suggested Sherlock, completely dismissing John last question. He just needed John out, anything just to get him out of the house.

John sighed again, shaking his head and turning to look at his flatmate. "Sherlock, you know, I'd really just rather stay home tonight, alright? Besides, I'm trying not to go to the pub as much. Been drinking far more than I should these days." he said with a shrug, not being bothered with the fact that Sherlock likely didn't care. "We can order takeaway, if you like. I can get you something for your fever, too. Might help."

Sherlock groaned inwardly as he raised a hand to his forehead, wiping the sweat from it again and proceeded to walk to the door but found himself feeling incredibly dizzy. He closed his eyes but regretted it soon after as he stumbled on the spot before regaining his balance once more, with his arms spread wide.

John snapped out of his sulky behaviour when he noticed Sherlock stumbling a bit, immediately hopping up to help him. “Careful,” he said in a worried tone placing a hand on Sherlock’s arm to steady him as he watched him intently. “Sherlock are you sure you’re alright? Here, just… sit down.” 

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed as John guided him to a chair, regretting it instantly before obediently sitting down. He was too warm, far too warm, sweat was pouring out of him as if it was fifty degrees in the room. "I'm fine," he breathed, lying once more.

"No, you aren't. God, get your shirt off. I don't want you getting a heat stroke or something, there's no reason you should be this warm." he commented, beginning to go to the kitchen and pausing to turn back and open the window, despite his previous complaint. "My med kit's upstairs, I think it still has some medicine I can give you for the fever. Any other symptoms? Stomach ache, sore throat..." he called, opening the freezer and pulling a pack of frozen peas out for Sherlock's forehead.

John didn't understand - no - he couldn’t understand; he couldn’t know what was really going on. "John- I'm fine, really." he insisted but deep down he knew he wasn't. It wasn’t normally as bad as this, usually it was just uncomfortably warm but this... this was unbearable and his head! "I just need some water," he lied once more to his friend as he got up to walk towards the kitchen before completely falling on his ass on the living room floor.

"Oh, shit," John muttered, tossing the peas onto the kitchen counter and hurrying back into the living room to help his friend, trying to help him sit up. "You're not fine, Sherlock. Look at you! Just go lie down, I'll take care of you, okay? I don't see how you could have gotten this sick, you seemed perfectly fine yesterday."

Sherlock didn't understand any of this either, since when had it ever been this bad. He tried back tracking in his mind to see what could have caused the change, and then it hit him like a stone cold pavement. How could he have forgotten? How could _Mycroft_ have forgotten? That damn woman had distracted his mind; distracted him from his worst nightmare.

"Shit..." he cursed under his breath. "John, you have to leave now!" he instructed as he tried getting to his feet to look for his coat.

“Sher-” John started, trying to cut him off before realizing what Sherlock was trying to do. “Oh no you don’t.” he mumbled, beating Sherlock to his coat and snatching it, holding a hand out to block the other man. “You look like you’re about to pass out. No way are you going out tonight.”

Sherlock let out a whine, it was almost canine in sound and that’s when Sherock knew he was running out of time. “John please move.” he begged, the plead showing in his eyes.

The doctor’s expression softened; something was wrong. This wasn’t right; Sherlock never said please. John bit his lip and shook his head, standing his ground. “No Sherlock. I can’t let you leave, I’m sorry.” he sighed.

“John please, I’m trying to protect you!” he urged.

The doctor took a step closer to his friend, staring into his eyes, confused. “Protect me from what? Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Because I- argh!” he gasped suddenly, sinking to his knees in obvious pain as he clutched at his rib cage.

“Sherlock!” John cried, throwing Sherlock’s coat behind him and kneeling in front of his friend, grabbing onto him. It seemed Sherlock had gotten even warmer, if that was even at all possible. Should he be concerned for the detective’s life? “Sherlock, I’m right here, it’s okay, look, can you hear me?” he asked a bit frantically, brushing Sherlock’s damp curls from his forehead.

Sherlock eyes and teeth were clenched shut, his fist balled tightly around his chest. “John-please-I-I need you to l-leave.” he grunted through his teeth, feeling John’s cool hands against his burning skin.

The soldier hesitated a moment before setting Sherlock on the floor carefully, snatching a pillow from the sofa and sliding it under his head. He still kept a hand on the detective’s shoulder lightly, in case he needed to grab him again. “Sherlock, I swear, if you don’t tell me what you’ve done, or whatever drug you’ve taken right now, I’m calling Mycroft. Do you understand?” he warned as he peeled open one of Sherlock’s eye lids to see if it was dilated. However as he did, Sherlock’s eyes flashed dangerously gold causing the detective to pull away and clenched them shut once more. 

The ex-army doctor blinked, staring at Sherlock’s previously opened eyes in surprise. No, the doctor's eyes must be playing tricks on him, the light maybe? He was certain Sherlock’s eyes were blue; a brilliant moonstone colour.

“Just go!” Sherlock moaned through the pain, rolling himself onto his side and trying to push himself away in an attempt to create some distance between John and himself. However, John didn’t hesitate to grab him again, rolling him back over onto his back and pinning him down with his hands. He was sure Sherlock often forgot he was strong; he was a soldier after all. “I’m calling Mycroft!” the doctor asserted as he went to grab his phone, hitting the call button but all-the-while keeping a heavy hand and elbow on Sherlock’s chest.

However, before John could react, Sherlock had started to moan in intense agony as his body began to convulse from the pain he was in. John hurriedly set the phone down on the ground and proceeded to roll the detective onto his side to prevent him chocking on possible vomit. _What the hell had he taken?_ All too soon the sound of cracking bones could be heard audibly and Sherlock let out a scream. John cringed at the sound of... God, was that sickening cracking sound coming from Sherlock? The doctor didn't try to grab him again, John just sat there on his knees, staring at the detective rather stupidly. He’d never heard any sort of drug being able to have this effect on someone. He opened his mouth to call his friend's name again but no sound came out, and he just stared at him, horrified. What was happening? He felt frozen in place, and his mind felt numb.

“Hello?” a voice called from the phone. “John?

John hurriedly held the phone up to his ear. “Mycroft! Oh thank God,” he breathed into the phone. “It’s Sherlock, I- I don’t know what’s wrong with him, he just-“

“John, listen to me carefully. You have to leave the flat this is instant.”

John frowned, dumbstruck by Mycroft’s instructions. “What? No. Mycroft can you not hear him, I can’t leave him like this.”

“John, going by his screaming you have about ten seconds before he kills you.”

“Wha-” but before John could continue Sherlock, who was still squirming and shaking violently, roared. The detective’s voice and the word ‘run’ a mixture of that soft, smooth baritone and a deep, threatening roar.

The pain at this point pain had uncontrollably taken over Sherlock’s body. The detective’s chest began to heave as his rib cage began to expand; bones crunching and knitting themselves back together. His skin began to rip and shred gorily, dark fur pushing out from within his body. His sleek and elegant trousers began to tear off under the strain of the dense muscle that began to build around his legs and torso. His hands morphed into massive paws, his nails growing into deadly sharp weapons and his feet growing as they too became a mixture of fur and claw. Sherlock let out a groan of agony as his facial structure and jaw started to change and snap into the shape of a muzzle. The detective’s screams soon mingled in with the deafening roars of a tortured wolf before finally, after several minutes of stomach-churning screaming, the room fell silent; the black mass collapsing onto its stomach, breathing heavily.


	2. The Wolf

John sat there on his knees, paralysed, as he stared aghast at the massive wolf that now lay unmoving -apart from the gentle rise and fall of its chest- on the carpet of 221B. The doctor’s eyes were so wide that it almost hurt to keep them open and he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath until he felt himself gasping for air breathlessly. He was sure he was going into shock. What he’d witnessed... that was impossible. It was bloody impossible. It would be years before he forgot the cries of the tortured animal that was (or, had been at one point, maybe) his flatmate. What was worse, he had no idea if this beast in front of him was even Sherlock any more. 

Without warning, the wolf gave out a gruff grunt through its nose before a pink tongue flicked out slowly to lick the tip of its wet black nose. Its huge paw sluggishly trailed along the ground towards it as it proceeded to get onto all four paws. 

"John... John? Can you hear me?”

The ex-army doctor stumbled back immediately, clutching the phone tightly in his hand, attempting to muffle the sound but it was already too late, the wolf’s head had shot up, staring straight ahead of him with golden eyes towards John as the black mass started to slowly stalk towards him.

“John, get out now!”

The soldier didn’t think he’d be able to stand, let alone run away, if he had tried; his socked heels prevented him from moving as much as he’d liked to. Since when had he been so easily frightened? John took sharp breaths through his nose before trying to speak. “S-Sherlock, its-it’s me, John.” The wolf let out a low growl and John held up his hands slowly in defence. “Please... It’s just me.” his voice was shaking and cracking uncontrollably, but he didn’t dare blink as the wolf moved ever closer.

The wolf narrowed his eyes at John, leaning into his face closely and sniffing around it carefully. John let out a quiet squeak and squeezed his eyes shut as the wolf’s cold nose brushed his face. _Breathe. Just breathe, John. He won’t hurt you._ But his hope was soon squashed when the wolf threw back its head and let out a deep spine-chilling howl that seemed bellowed straight up from his gut. 

The blonde hurriedly held his hands up protectively, trying to scoot backwards even further as the wolf raised a paw readying for the strike. “Oh God, Sherlock please, it’s John!” he spoke frantically, the worst thoughts running through his head. _A werewolf. A bloody werewolf._ So this is it, the end of John Watson...

However before the wolf could swipe down, its face twitched suddenly to the side – as if it had been punched. Then suddenly the wolf began to growl at something that wasn’t there before resuming its initial attack pose. But before it could raise its paw above its head again, the wolf’s jaw clamped down on his own arm.

John’s eyes widened in surprise when the wolf bit itself, almost feeling a surge of pity behind his fear. He took the sudden opportunity to scramble over behind Sherlock’s chair, since the wolf was blocking the exit. There was nothing else he could do; his gun was upstairs, no... he couldn’t kill Sherlock, even if Sherlock wanted to kill him. What if this was Sherlock? Or maybe Sherlock was gone... John shook his head clear of his thoughts; he didn’t have time to dwell on the idea.

“John!”

The doctor had forgotten all about the phone in his hand and held it up to his ear with a hushed whisper. “Mycroft, what the hell is going on?”

“That doesn’t matter right now. Are you out of the flat?”

“No, it’s- he’s, whatever, is blocking the door.”

“Shit... Wait, what’s it doing why hasn’t it attacked?”

“I don’t fucking know why?!” John whispered angrily, before breathing out and gingerly poking his head out from behind the back of the chair.

The wolf had began to snarl and claw at its head, leaving deep gashes along its face and neck before continuing to bite at its arm, tearing a great chunk of flesh away, leaving a gory wound behind.

John winched as he saw the flesh being torn from the wolf’s arm, feeling a bit light-headed. Gore had never bothered him, he was a doctor and had fought a war, but something about this made it worse. “I-I don’t know.” He whispered. “It looks like it’s gone mad. It’s-it's like it’s fighting itself."

“Amazing...” Mycroft breathed down the phone.

“What do you mean amazing? What could possibly be so damn amazing about my current situation?!” John whispered incredulously.

“I mean what Sherlock’s doing... It appears, from your description that my brother is fighting back. Something he’s never been able to do before.”

“Great, so I have a massive fucking werewolf in the middle of the living room with a split personality? Yeah, amazing, I see it now.” he retorted sarcastically through his teeth. He cringed suddenly as he watched the wolf slam itself into the wall, suddenly grateful that Mrs. Hudson was away visiting her sister; he wondered if Sherlock or Mycroft had organised that.

“What the hell am I suppose to do Mycroft?”

“Just try not to draw attention to yourself, I’m already on my way.” And with that, the elder Holmes hung up.

John looked at his phone, cursing under his breath and set it aside, taking a deep breath. The wolf’s cries made him cringe and he couldn’t help but remember watching the transformation; his best friend writhing in pain, screaming as his body rearranged itself. In all of his years as a doctor, he’d never heard of such a thing, let alone witnessed it. John would have deemed it impossible had he not have seen it with his own eyes. He was starting to see the struggle in the wolf’s head the more he watched. John’s mind was getting used to the sight in front of him, and the fog of shock was slowly becoming less apparent. His first thought had been that the wolf had been driven mad, had no control whatsoever but perhaps, as Mycroft had said, that wasn’t the case. What if it was hurting itself on purpose? What if the mental struggle wasn’t such a random one? Maybe Sherlock truly was in there, somewhere. 

He was trying to tell me. He wanted me to leave and I couldn’t stop being so stubborn. 

The doctor continued to watch the wolf attack itself, yelping and growling until he couldn’t take it any longer. This had to stop before it ended up killing itself, or Sherlock, or however it worked. It took John a few moments to build up the courage, and it wasn’t even all there when he stood up, arms stretched in front of his body defensively. “Stop it!” he shouted as loud as he could, trying to scream over the wolf’s roars and stand tall.

The wolf’s head spun round and roared powerfully at John, teeth bared, ready to kill. John knew showing fear would make it worse. If this was truly Sherlock, he couldn’t allow him to hurt himself. However, yet again, the wolf began to shake its head in torment, fighting with itself internally. It wanted to attack; it wanted to kill the man in front of him but something inside was telling it to stop, to back down, telling it that this man was not to be touched.

The wolf roared once again as it clawed at his face, ripping at its fur, biting and slashing before it collapsed in a fit of anger to the floor, panting heavily as its claws dug into the carpeted floor, clenching and unclenching.

John shuffled his feet a bit before deciding to take a step closer to the wolf, staring at it, heart pounding in his chest. If this was Sherlock, he was hurting, bleeding, and John didn’t want to let him lie there in pain. “Sherlock?” he managed to get out despite his fear, voice still sounding oddly quiet and far weaker than he’d meant for it to be.

The wolfs eyes burst open at the sound of John’s voice, those golden spheres staring up into the army doctors blue ones. The wolf was whimpering and John blinked in confusion a few times, surprised that his command had actually worked. “Now, Sherlock... listen.” He spoke slowly, taking another careful step towards him, still holding his hands in front of him looking into the wolf’s eyes. 

The wolf looked lost, almost sad, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not his teeth should be bared as his mouth had begun to twitch. John glanced at the teeth and felt a brief shiver down his spine. The wolf had large, sharp canines; fangs that he knew could kill him in a moment with one wrong step. The doctor tried to steady his breathing, reminding himself of his goal and that Mycroft was on his way. God, this was Sherlock. Sherlock bloody Holmes, a werewolf. 

“Sherlock, I want to help you. I... I don’t know if you can understand me, but... I want to help.” he spoke softly edging closer but the wolf snarled sharply baring its teeth and John stopped moving quickly. “It’s just me, it’s John, okay?” He lowered his head slightly in an attempt to show that he wasn’t a threat and mentally laughed at himself. As if this thing would see him as a danger. Look at what it’s capable of. John looked into the wolfs eyes again, keeping a perfectly straight face, banishing any emotion from it and praying he was, in fact, speaking to his friend. “I’m not going to hurt you... and I don’t think you want to hurt me either...” he smiled softly, extending a hand to try and touch the top of the wolfs muzzle in comfort.

Unfortunately, John’s plan back-fired as the wolf started to growl audibly, pushing itself onto all fours before extending itself back onto its hind legs, now towering over John, its head in reaching distance from the ceiling.

John swallowed heavily, his eyes wide as the wolf stood over him. The doctor stumbled onto the floor, his leg acting up for the first time in forever. _Move, get up!_ He opened his mouth but nothing but a quiet, quick cry of fear made its way out. He wanted to scream, to call for help, he half expected Sherlock to burst through the door and shoot the beast, saving him, being the hero the detective never believed he was. However, John knew Sherlock wasn’t coming to save him; Sherlock was about to kill him, or eat him, or whatever the hell he wanted him dead for. 

The black wolf snarled violently, its paw raised and bloody claws glistening like rubies. John took a sharp intake of breath, clenching his eyes shut and turned his head away as he waited for the strike. This is it. 

Then, without warning, the sudden crack of a gunshot cut through the air like steel.


	3. Explanation I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that this chapter is very short so I've uploaded both parts of 'Explanation' to compensate for the shortness of this chapter! As always comments are greatly appreciated, enjoy!

John flinched at the sound of the gunshot, momentarily thinking that the bullet had hit him, but the hard thud and snarl that followed soon after confirmed that it was in fact Sherlock that had been shot. The army doctor lifted his head slowly to see Mycroft Holmes standing at the entrance of the living room with a gun raised out in front of him, a mixture of concern and pity etched on the elder brother’s face. 

He’d been shot. _Sherlock had been shot._ Why was he so certain this was Sherlock now? Why had it taken him so long to make up his mind? John’s mouth fell open and his head had begun hurt; feeling light-headed and disoriented as he scrambled forward to the wolf’s side. 

“Don’t.” Mycroft warned. “Let the Wolfsbane do its job first.”

The wolf was gasping and spluttering, trying to push itself back up again but it was becoming weaker and weaker with each passing second the Wolfsbane was in its body. Every breath felt like fire around its body and its brilliant golden eyes had begun to develop small red veins around the edges. 

“He’ll be fine.” Mycroft assured as he watched John look on in horror. “The bullet’s not laced with enough Wolfsbane to kill him, just enough to incapacitate him.”

John let out a hysterical noise, some sort of mixture between a laugh and a cry. “What do you mean _fine?_ You just shot your brother in the back! ”

“It wasn’t a silver bullet.” Mycroft reassured quietly, a look of concern still covering his face.

“You can’t be serious...” John breathed, letting his head roll back as he tried to catch his breath, blinking at the ceiling a few times. His vision was slightly blurred still; definitely shock. This was mad. This was totally and unbelievably crazy. “Well, what are we supposed to do with him now, huh?” he voiced angrily as he watched the wolfs eyelids close slowly, the horrible rasping sound of it trying to breath the only indication that it was in fact still alive. “Let him bleed out?”

Mycroft looked sadly at his younger brother. “I’m afraid there’s not much we can do for him until sunrise.” he admitted solemnly.

John let out another dry laugh, shaking his head. As terrible as it was, he had to admit to himself, it was far better for Sherlock to be unconscious. He was angry with Mycroft, but in the back of his mind, he knew shooting him was probably far better than letting him hurt himself. It was good to see him in a more peaceful position, and John was able to get a better look at his flatmate’s new form. He looked far more innocent with his mouth shut, teeth hidden; almost gentle really.

The army doctor slowly edged towards the mass on the floor, breathing shakily as he extended a hand to run his fingers along Sherlock’s arm, frowning at the raw patches where the fur had been torn out and where the flesh had been bitten away. It was still bleeding steadily, but it didn’t look like the injury reached the bone, only muscle. He hesitated a moment before moving his fingers to glide through the fur on the wolf’s head, stroking his ears gently; there were plenty of scratches there as well. “You have a lot of explaining to do.” John warned quietly staring at Mycroft. 

Mycroft sighed out with a slow nod. “I best make myself comfortable then.”


	4. Explanation II

“So let me get this straight...” John spoke through closed eyes, rubbing at his temples. “You’re both werewolves?”

“Correct.” Mycroft nodded. “Sherlock and I inherited the condition from our parents. Lycanthropy in the Holmes family dates back many centuries; it’s a big part of our family history.”

“Yeah, a big part Sherlock failed to mention.” The doctor scoffed.

“Well, it isn’t something that normally comes up in conversation, now does it Doctor Watson?”

John sighed out as he shook his head, continuing to rub at his temples. “Wait, if you’re a werewolf, how come you aren’t... you know?” he questioned, pointing a finger at the unconscious wolf on the floor.

“Well when you reach a certain age you no longer have, shall we say, a compulsion to change every full moon, you are able to transform whenever you wish... unfortunately for Sherlock that time never came.”

Mycroft looked at John’s face, sensing that the doctor had more questions but didn’t know how to ask them. He looked at his brother, quiet and peaceful on the floor beside him – apart from the rasping of his breath. “Although lycanthropy is a mutation itself,” Mycroft began. “Sherlock developed a secondary mutation, a fault, a disability if you like. Most full moons my brother is able to control 'the wolf', as we call it in our family, but every year on the anniversary of his first transformation -when the bond between himself and the wolf is at its strongest- he just can’t seem to control his actions nor have any memory of what occurred on the night. However, tonight...” he trailed off, looking down at his brother's wolf form. “Tonight my brother fought back and I think he has you to thank.”

John scrunched up his faced in confusion. “Me? What did I do?”

Mycroft turned round to face John. “You were simply here; he had something to fight for.” Mycroft paused. “I don’t think you realise that my brother cares for you, Doctor Watson.”

“I’m not gay.” John said out of instinct, causing a small chuckle to come from Mycroft.

“So you keep telling us.” The elder brother smirked.

John ignored him, the two men sitting in silence for a few moments before John spoke up. “He’ll be okay though, won’t he?” he asked, turning to look at Mycroft.

The elder Holmes sighed, glancing at his brother with a scanning eye. “Injuries associated with werewolves are dangerous but the fact he inflicted the wounds upon himself, I don’t know. His injuries will transfer over onto his human form however, so he’ll be weak; very weak.”

“I can deal with that.” John assured. “I’ve no doubt seen worse in the army.”

Mycroft shrugged slightly. “You may be surprised but you’ll find out soon enough, it’s almost sunrise.” he informed, double checking his watch.

John swallowed and nodded, sitting up straight. As Mycroft said, Sherlock would be weak. He would need John’s help, and it was John’s job to make sure he’d be alright. “Right then.” he said stiffly, getting up and making his way towards his bedroom with a slight limp in his step. “I’ll just get my things, like you said he’ll be awake soon and I want to get to work on that arm before there’s any more damage. Make yourself another cuppa, if you like.”

“No, I think it would be best if I wasn’t here when he wakes.” he explained as he turned to leave. “Oh and John,” he remembered as he walked past him. “Please don’t hesitate to call me with any other questions you may have.” And with that, he left the flat.

John pinched the bridge of his nose as the door shut behind Mycroft, glancing back at Sherlock. Of course Mycroft wouldn’t stay. If there was one man who could show up and shoot his younger brother and leave as if nothing was out of sorts, it was Mycroft Holmes. 

“Just you and me, big guy.” he mumbled at the wolf’s still form, grabbing the banister for support as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Part of him was exhausted and wanted to collapse on his bed and pretend none of this ever happened. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was all some crazy dream. 

He tried to keep his thoughts on track as he grabbed his kit from under the bed, pausing before grabbing his cane as well, shoved far behind it. It couldn’t hurt.

John worked quickly on getting down the stairs, using his cane far more than was probably necessary and kneeling beside the wolf once more. The doctor placed a hand on his friend’s side, having to bury his fingers deep into the smooth black fur to detect a heartbeat. It was slightly fast but what if that was the normal rate for a werewolf? John shook his head, he had a lot to learn.

John could only sit there now, brow furrowed in concern as he waited for Sherlock’s transformation.


	5. Sunrise

The sun was the first thing to pierce the darkness of the flat, carrying with it the torch of a new day. The dark haired wolf still lay in the same position, lifeless, apart from the shallow rising and falling of its chest and John sat on his seat, head resting in hand as he tried to stop his eyes from closing over; something he’d been trying to do for the past few hours.

During the night, John had gathered his medical kit and a few towels and clothes for Sherlock; going by the werewolf movies he’d seen growing up, he figured Sherlock might need them once the fur was gone.

As the golden rays filled the small flat, the wolf’s body went rigid, eyes shooting open and then beginning to gasp roughly; bullet still lodged in its back. It began to whine as its body began to convulse and spasm, the sickening sounds of tearing and snapping once again filling the flat. 

John was suddenly wide awake, cringing at the sudden whines and screams, feeling incredibly light-headed again. It was terrifying, almost as upsetting as seeing his fellow soldiers die in Afghanistan. That, however, he’d had time to prepare for. This... this was impossible, shocking, and he wasn’t sure he could recover so easily.

The wolf’s howls of agony began to mix back with Sherlock’s voice; more humanly features beginning to show. Sherlock slowly began to get onto all fours, trying to allow the transformation to pass, if anything, just a little more comfortably. As the shoulder blades began to morph back, a sudden click of Sherlock’s shoulder blades caused the bullet to be expelled from his body and as if Sherlock had been under water, he gasped for air as the horrible rasping faded slightly.

Finally, the muzzle was the last feature to shrink away and a sweaty, shaking and injured Sherlock was left on his hands and knees before collapsing to the floor exhausted and trembling.

John automatically grabbed his kit without thinking, placing a small pad of gauze over the bullet wound before placing a towel over Sherlock –indecent exposure averted- and softly rolled Sherlock over onto his back; the wound on his friends arm needed priority. “Just stay still Sherlock, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

Sherlock was vaguely aware of John’s voice, his head throbbing. “John?” He rasped weakly, his throat still hoarse.

“Yes, yeah, it’s me. Right here.” he said, nodding quickly. “It’s fine, just relax, it won’t hurt as bad after this,” he explained, finding a vein in Sherlock’s arm and injecting the painkiller. He took hold of Sherlock’s hand, moving his arm as carefully as he could and stared at the large wound, lips pressed into a tight frown. “I’ve got to get this stitch up. I’m sorry. This’ll probably hurt.” he murmured, opening an antiseptic pad and pressing it to the injury, eyes still on Sherlock’s face. He’d been a wolf a minute ago. _A bloody wolf._

“I know, I’m sorry, Sherlock...” John said quietly as the detective hissed sharply through his teeth. He squeezed his friend’s hand, dabbing at the wound as gently as he could. John’s face was scrunched into a look of pity and sadness, even pain, as if it was him who had had a bite taken from his arm.

“It’s not your fault.” The detective croaked, seeing the guilt written on the doctor’s face. “I should have told you.”

John stopped what he was doing for a moment to focus on his friend, frowning. “If I’d just left, you wouldn’t have-”

“John.” Sherlock interrupted. “It’s not your fault.” he repeated with sincerity. “I don’t know what I was thinking; you would never have left someone in pain. You would have stayed even if I had told you.”

The doctor looked away from him, focusing now on the injury of the detective’s back deeming the wound on his arm as clean as it was going to get. “You’re going to be fine.” John started, changing the subject. “I’ve seen worse, we can get you to the hospital-”

“No!” Sherlock warned. “No, you can never take me there. For anything, ever.”

John shook his head. “Right. Werewolf.” he reminded himself. “Yeah, alright. Okay.” He agreed, moving his hand to check Sherlock’s vitals.

The detective’s pulse was fast but not dangerously fast, John suspected it was just the adrenaline rushing through Sherlock’s body so he wasn’t too concerned on that front. However Sherlock’s breathing was another matter- it was ragged, wheezy and whiney interspersed with trembles of his body. He had never known the detective to be asthmatic but if he had been, John might have misdiagnosed it as a minor asthma attack.

“It’s just the Wolfsbane that was coated on the bullet.” Sherlock assured tiredly. “It’s toxic, causes respiratory problems when inhaled or when it comes into contact with blood.”

“Oh...”

“The effects should wear off soon enough, I doubt my brother dosed the bullet with enough of the stuff to kill me.” He smirked weakly.

There was a long pause as John went about cleaning out the wound. “The drugs should have kicked in by now, I’ll start to stitch your arm and back.”

“Drugs don’t work on me.” Sherlock responded casually. “Well, on our kind.”

“What?”

“They don’t work. Werewolves have very fast metabolisms, so our bodies just burn off the medication.” he explained.

“Wait, didn’t you used to take drugs though?”

“Yes, but I had to take extremely high doses almost constantly for them to even have some sort of effect on me. That’s why Mycroft was continually trying to get me to stop. It was uncharted water and very dangerous.”

This was crazy. John breathed out slowly, still trying to get to grips with everything that had just happened, a grim look spread across his face and eyes at the idea of hurting Sherlock. “Well this is going to hurt.” John warned through a breath. “You need a fair amount of stitches on that arm of yours.”

“I’ve been through worse.” Sherlock responded and unfortunately John was convinced it was true.


	6. The Talk

Sherlock had thanked John as the doctor finished stitching up his back and arm and wrapped both wounds in tight gauze. The atmosphere between the pair had been awkward after that, of course it was, Sherlock had just turned into a wolf in front of John’s eyes. John was still in shock and Sherlock could tell the ex-army officer had an almighty list of question buzzing around his head.

John was currently sat in his seat, union jack pillow placed behind his back as he clutched at a cup of tea, cane resting beside him. He hadn’t properly spoken to Sherlock since the ordeal; the detective had stated he needed to go and rest for a few hours before John could ask any real questions. It wasn’t until several hours later that the detective descended the stairs of the flat and entered into the living room. 

He looked terrible. There were small gashes littered across his face and he looked so weak that a puff of air could threaten to knock him over. His eyes were dark and he seemed to grimace every time he moved too much but thankfully the horrible rasping of his lungs had faded away. He wandered over to his seat and sat down with an exhausted sigh, looking towards John with a small but forced smile. “I take it you have questions.” Sherlock stated.

John licked his lips nervously as he sat his mug of tea down on the coffee table beside him, debating which one of the many questions spinning around his head was the most practical to ask first. He took a slow breath in through his nose before speaking up. “Mycroft explained to me that you weren’t... _you_ back there.” He started. “But he said that you’d never been able to fight back before, that you had always just been... _the wolf_.” 

The words felt strange on the blonde’s tongue. He couldn’t believe he was talking about this seriously, describing two different beings inside Sherlock’s mind. The ‘wolf’ and of course Sherlock, the man he knew; the man he had lived with; the man he had grown to care for. “If you both really are separate and I can only guess that it took you a lot of effort to stop the wolf attacking me, why did you do it? Why didn’t you just let it get me? It certainly would have been easier.” He admitted - it wasn’t fair that Sherlock had had to put himself in harm’s way to protect him.

Sherlock sighed gently as he looked down at his arm. “It would have killed you. If I hadn’t had intervened I would have woken up to your dead body.” He admitted solemnly. “And I suppose I intervened for more selfish reasons than heroic – I wouldn’t have been able to live with the guilt, I didn’t want to live with the knowledge that I had let it kill you.” The detective let out another sigh as looked up at John. “And even if by some miracle it hadn’t managed to kill you, I didn’t want to be the reason you’d change, the reason why your life wouldn’t be the same.” 

John blinked in disbelief. “Change? You don’t mean... into a werewolf? You mean that can actually happen?” he bit his lip, looking Sherlock over curiously.

“It’s not like the movies, John.” Sherlock suddenly interjected, sensing a bit of excitement in John’s voice. “It’s not a quick bite and then the next day you can you see and hear perfectly. It’s painful, agonising, excruciating, it takes days for the transformation to complete and even then it takes months, _years_ , for you to understand and control your urges. It ruins people’s lives, John. I couldn’t let that happen to you.”  
John remained quiet, sensing the urgency in which Sherlock wanted him to understand that it wasn’t, as the detective had put it, ‘like the movies’. It wasn’t something to seek out or yearn for; it was a curse and a horrible one at that. “So you can be turned with a bite is what you’re saying. Or it can be genetic?”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Yes, but it’s not the physical bite that changes you. The disease is passed through the saliva, if a werewolf scratches you are more than likely dead as a werewolf doesn’t just scratch but if you managed to get away with only some scratches you would be left with permanent scarring and you’d adopt a few ‘canine’ characteristics.”

“Like what?”

“You’d prefer your meat rarer, your sense might become slightly heightened, that kind of things.”

“Sounds like I should’ve let you scratch me, then. Another’s scar’s nothing; could do with the heightened senses, my hearing’s going a bit. Getting old I guess.” He said with a slight smile and chuckle, trying his best to be casual about it all but Sherlock wasn’t laughing. John took a breath in, clearing his throat awkwardly as he shuffled in his chair, reaching over to finish his tea.

Sherlock was a werewolf. That fact was still sinking in. John could very well still be in shock and to think that he could have been on a date last night! What if he had been on the date? What if this was just some crazy alcohol-induced dream he was having and he hadn’t quite woken up yet to face the morning with a horrendous hangover? No, the atmosphere was far too serious for it to be a dream of any sort; despite the fantasy element of the werewolf factor everything seemed very real, too real for the scenario to be a dream.

After placing his mug back down, John drummed his fingers on the handle of his chair, mouth pushed into a thin line as he thought about his next question. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock breathed a small laugh through his nose, a small smile playing on his lips at John’s naivety. “Think about it. If I had really told you, would you have honestly believed me?”

John scratched the back of his neck. “To be honest, I don’t know. I mean, it isn’t as if you’d have a reason to lie about something like that. And knowing you, you wouldn’t exactly joke about it either. I’d probably think you were on drugs again or gone mad or something, but I guess I would have believed you eventually.” He responded. “Then again, I’m almost not surprised. Never really thought you could just be an ordinary human. When I think about it, it sort of makes sense. I mean, you do use your nose a lot; you’re unusually protective, bordering on territorial about certain things. If I had believed it was possible, I don’t think I would have missed it so easily. I mean you could have always shown me, too. Pretty bad night to watch you change, hm? Anniversary or whatever. I’m sure you aren’t even half as bad when your minds’ still all there.”

John was right, it would have been better if he had gotten to see him without the wolf controlling his every move. “That’s true but it’s not in a werewolf’s nature to go telling people about their condition, you don’t know who you might be telling it to.” He spoke.

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Hunters, John.”

John looked at Sherlock with a slightly sad expression on his face. The thought of anyone trying to hurt Sherlock put a lump in the soldier’s throat, hunting his best friend down because of what he was. He wanted to say something, but his mind was blank. “Have you ever been caught?” he asked, sadness in his voice, the words only a whisper.

Sherlock rose from his chair with a grimace to go and put John’s mug in the sink. “If I had been, I wouldn’t be here.” he lied.

John stared at the other man’s face, trying to read him. He wished he was a brilliant as his companion, he could seemingly read minds just by a line on the face or the ways eyes were focused. He had no way of knowing what the detective was thinking or feeling. However John did noticed Sherlock’s grimace and watched the detective walk past him into the kitchen. “Did you really have to be that hard on yourself? Trying to tear yourself apart?”

“I wasn’t trying to tear myself apart,” he defended. “I made the minor gashes, _it_ did that.” He referred to the slightly more serious wounds including the bite out his arm.

“There’s got to be something we can do for pain? We can ask Mycroft, maybe. Also, it might be best if you stay home for a while. I doubt you’ll have a lot of movement in your arm for a few weeks.” He called over his shoulder.

“I need the cases.” He asserted, ignoring John’s comment about the pain. “I can say I was injured on a private case, usually works.”

“Usually?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, usually.” Sherlock answered rather forcefully as he turned on the tap. “Besides I should be fine in a few days.”

John raised his eyebrows. “A night like last night and you’re going to be _fine in a few days_? Weird werewolf healing powers or something?” he guessed.

“Don’t be ridiculous John!” Sherlock reprimanded as he made his way back to his chair.

“Well how am I supposed to know?” John responded incredulously. “What do you normally do on full moons then, when you’re not a blood thirsty werewolf? Just... stay in the flat, watch telly or something?”

“When I was younger my father used to send me out into the acres of grounds we owned, not to come back until I was human again.” He started, not making eye contact with John. “As I grew older and moved out Mycroft would take me to a nearby forest, and now Mycroft sends a car and I drive.”

John hated the idea of Sherlock turning into a huge wolf against his will then being thrown out by his parents when Mycroft was able to make himself stay human. It was unfair. He could only imagine how they must have been compared, how it must have felt. And once a month, Sherlock had been leaving home without telling him, going off without him, possibly putting himself in danger. With Sherlock, you never could tell who could be out to get him. John had sort of taken it upon himself to take care of him. Mycroft certainly had made that clear. How could he have not known about this? How many times had Sherlock felt like he needed to leave because of him? “Where do you go?” John asked after a moment, frowning. “You just stay out in the forest all night until you’re human again?”

Sherlock nodded.

“You don’t need to leave on full moons anymore, okay?” John spoke without hesitation.

Sherlock gave a soft smile. “Mrs. Hudson might just die of fright if she saw me.”

John smiled slightly at Sherlock, though his eyes still conveyed worry. “Why don’t we tell her then, hm?” he suggested, leaning against the arm of his chair but saw a protest beginning to form on Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson loves you, you’re like a son to her and you know it. She would never do anything to hurt you or expose you or anything like that.” He raised his eyebrows. 

“I don’t want anyone else to know John.”

“Look, Sherlock... Mrs. Hudson lives with us. She worries about you. If she was to see you like that, well...” he bit his lip, averting his eyes for a moment. “I don’t want her to be afraid of you. You know it wouldn’t bother her. You don’t have to hide it from people who-”

“Yes, I do John.” Sherlock interjected. “You’ve only just been introduced to the world I live in; you don’t understand how it works. Now please believe me when I say, the less people that know about what I am, the better.”

John set his jaw as he tapped his fingers against the arm rest before nodding slowly in submission. “Okay.” He agreed gently. The detective was right, he had no idea of the world Sherlock Holmes knew, the world in which John had now found himself in – but he wanted to learn. John turned his head to look towards the morning light pouring in through the window. “For the record, this completely goes against ‘potential flatmates should know the worst about each other’.” He commented to Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I love hearing feedback from you guys so please remember to leave a comment! Constructive criticism is welcome also! :)


	7. Worries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait everyone, I'm going to write the next chapter right away so hopefully the wait isn't too long this time. Once again, many apologies!

“No, Sherlock. We’ve been over this.”

It had been a few weeks since John had found himself thrust into this strange new world where werewolves existed. Sherlock, of course, had been just as difficult as ever while he recovered from his injuries, wanting to go out on cases while John had been firmly putting his foot down and refusing the detective such pleasures. The reason the doctor found himself in an argument currently was because Sherlock had received a text from Lestrade earlier that morning who was in desperate need of help on an apparent suicide case.

“Sherlock, you can’t go right back to running around the city like nothing’s wrong.” he tried to reason with the man in front of him who was already dressed immaculately in one of the many pristine suits he owned. “You’ve barely sat still enough for that to heal.” John gestured to Sherlock’s arm.

“John, come on.” Sherlock complained.

“I’m not having it. You’ll rip that open again and then it’ll be even worse. No, I’m sorry, I’m telling Lestrade you can’t leave the flat yet.” John said, reaching for his mobile, however Sherlock was quick to intercept and managed to grab John’s phone before he could, keeping it from him.

John glared at Sherlock. “Sherlock, come on, you’re not a child.”

“Then stop treating me like one.” 

“Then stop acting like one!” John countered throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. He knew that with Sherlock there was no winning, he would have to compromise. The doctor gave an outward sigh before scrubbing his hands down his face. “Look, why don’t we see if Greg can get some photographs of the scene. Maybe he can bring some evidence by for you to take a look at.”

Sherlock scoffed turning away from John.

John pressed his mouth into a thin line, time to try a different approach. “You know Greg is going to ask what happened to you as soon as he sees you. Your face is still scratched, you’re still limping a bit and your arm had got a chunk bitten out of it for god’s sake!”

“I’ll tell him what I always tell him, I was injured on a private case.” Sherlock countered.

“Yeah because that will work,” John responded sarcastically. “If you tell him you got in a fight while investigating something on your own, he’s damn well going to want to know what it is. Private case of not, if there’s a psychopath roaming around London, knifing people and taking chunks out of people’s arms, Greg will want to know. He’s not going to turn his head forever.”

Sherlock chewed the inside of his lip. John did have a point.

“You know I’m only doing this for your own good, Sherlock. If you weren’t so focused on how bored you are, you’d realise that taking a case is a bad idea. Now give it here.” He ordered, holding his hand out for his phone.

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh before angrily handing the phone back over to John before he curled himself up in his chair, sulking.

John smiled with sarcastic sweetness and took his phone back. “Good boy.” he mumbled under his breath after dialling.

“I heard that!” Sherlock growled furiously.

Greg picked up quickly, to which John was thankful for. “Greg?” he said quickly, taking a step away from his sulking friend. “Yeah, I am so sorry. Sherlock didn’t tell me he’d agreed to come in today, which he shouldn’t have done.” he said, directing a glare at Sherlock. “It turns out he can’t go to the scene today. You understand he was injured pretty badly on a... private case. Yes, I know he said he was fine, but you know Sherlock.” He laughed. “I don’t think he’s ready to go out yet. No, no, it’s alright, he just hasn’t quite finished recovering yet, that’s all. Yeah, he’s driving me up the wall... Listen Greg, could I come down tomorrow to collect the files, perhaps? I’m sure he could help from home I-” he paused, smiling. “Yes, thank you. I appreciate it. You know how he can get without a case. We can talk later. Yeah, alright, cheers.” He hung up, raising his hands defensively. “Alright? Done. No problem. You’ve got a case, now you can stop sulking.”

“Oh shut up.” The detective complained as John teased him.

“Oh come on, I was only joking.” he said, rolling his eyes and leaning against the arm of the sofa. “There’s no need to be touchy about it. To be honest, Sherlock, I don’t understand why you’ve been acting like this lately. The... well, what happened a few weeks ago. You’re healing. You knew it was going to be like this. And it’s not all bad, you’ve got a case now. You shouldn’t be behaving like the world’s come to an end because you’re off your feet for a while. It’s worth it. After surviving a near death experience, mind you. You should be happy.”

“It was hardly a near death experience, John.” He argued with a grump.

“Really Sherlock? Your brother came in here and shot you right in the back. How did he know it wasn’t going to be a through and through and hit your heart? Do you have any idea how scared I was?” he asked, his voice rising slightly at the careless attitude Sherlock was displaying towards his injuries. John sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face once more, knowing he had to calm down.

“That’s beside the point, you don’t understand.”

“Help me, then.” John replied calmly, staring at the other man. “I can’t understand if you don’t tell me, Sherlock. Just give me a chance to understand, yeah?”

Sherlock stayed silent curled up in his chair before getting to his feet to head towards his room. “It’s nothing.” 

“Look at me.” John asked, rounding on him. “There is something to explain. You said so yourself, ‘that’s beside the point’. You told me I wouldn’t understand. I need to understand what’s going on with you Sherlock right now, it’s important.” he demanded, grabbing hold on Sherlock’s uninjured arm to stop him walking any further.

“John stop.” he asked sadly as he tried to wriggle his way out of the doctor hold without success.

“No,” John said firmly, looking into Sherlock’s eyes. “Sherlock you’re hurt.” he stated loudly as he tightened his hold when the man tried to pull free, keeping him still. “Why can’t you just tell me what’s bothering you?”

“I almost killed you!” Sherlock finally snapped. The pair of them stared at each other before Sherlock broke eye contact to look at the floor by his feet. “You keep talking about how I’m hurt and how I should rest but you’re completely skipping the part where I almost killed you.” He said quietly after a long moment of silence.

“That wasn’t you.” John comforted.

“Yes it was!” Sherlock snapped again. “Because that’s who I am, who I always have been. I am the wolf and the wolf is me. Trust me, it would be best for all of us if you hadn’t of found out.”

“You’re not going to hurt me.” John answered with complete certainty, looking Sherlock over, a melancholy expression on his face as he dropped his hold on Sherlock.

“You can’t be sure, John.” Sherlock tried to reason. “If Mycroft hadn’t been watching, you’d be dead, I-”

“Sherlock, if it wasn’t for Mycroft, you could have been dead too. God, he shot you. That wasn’t the way to handle things. You could have died and that isn’t fair either.”

“But I’m dangerous John.”

John’s face fell with sadness. “Oh, Sherlock.” He breathed, hesitating a moment before reaching a hand over to Sherlock, setting it on his arm. Sherlock Holmes thought he was a monster, a dangerous animal to be locked away and shot on sight. “You’re not a monster.” John said shaking his head. “I saw you for a minute that night. When it, not you, it was attacking me, when you were hurt, that was really you in there. You almost beat it and I know you will be able to. We have a year before that happens again. I don’t want you to give up on getting rid of whatever it is that takes you like that. This time, you’re going to be ,you, you won’t have to worry about hurting me, yeah? We know what happens on the anniversary thing, and we know when it happens. We can fight it.” he reassured, hoping to ease Sherlock’s worries. “We’ll be ready next year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that comments/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.


	8. You're Still You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay let's just agree that I'm terrible at updating...

The full moon hung like a great luminous pearl in the inky sky. Its light shone behind the clouds making them look like sheets of silver against the black bed of the sky. It had been a complete month since John had seen Sherlock turn into a werewolf before his eyes and now the detective was beginning to show the signs of another change.

“Could you stop bustling about?” Sherlock panted as he unbuttoned his sweat-drenched shirt. “My arm is fine, the stitches will hold.”

“Sherlock, if this splits there won’t be anything that we can do. It’ll hurt like hell and I can’t do anything when you’re a bloody wolf, I’ll be useless!” John countered. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, shaking his head and taking a moment to compose himself. 

_You’re overreacting. He’s going to be fine. Sherlock is okay... he isn’t going to hurt you. That wolf is him. Just him this time. The dreams don’t mean anything. We’re both going to be okay._

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s all just a bit stressful that’s all.” John spoke as he worriedly watched Sherlock take off his shirt, looking as though the flat was a hundred degrees; despite the winter air coming in through the windows. The doctor took his hand and moved his fingers to Sherlock’s wrists, taking his pulse and pressing his palm to the other man’s forehead. “Let me get you some water, okay? Is there anything else I can do to help? Ice pack, maybe?” he called back over his shoulder as he filled up a glass.

Sherlock shook his head. “They’ll only melt.” He grumbled through a heavy breath. Sherlock felt a small spasm in his arm causing him to wince under his breath. It had started. “John?” he gasped. “John, when it starts I don’t want- argh!” he startled, surprised by the painful shot up his back.

John’s eyes widened when he heard Sherlock’s exclamation. Glass of water forgotten, John hurried to his friend’s side to try and steady him. 

Sherlock closed his eyes to try and focus on what he was trying to say. “I don’t want you in the room when it starts. I’ve changed my mind I don’t want you near.

“Sherlock I can’t-”

“No.” Sherlock interrupted John’s protest. “I want – I want you to promise me.” He demanded through clenched teeth.

John stared at Sherlock silently, trying to work out what was going on in that big head of his. “Let’s just get you to your room, okay? I don’t want you having to change on the floor this time.” he smiled as he wrapped one of his arms around Sherlock’s waist and helped him to his feet and guided him towards his room.

John let out a breath as he set Sherlock on his bed, a bit disappointed by his apparent loss of strength since Afghanistan. “Alright,” he huffed, taking a moment to catch his breath. “There, now you just – just stay there, okay?” He reassured as he slowly pushed Sherlock down onto the bed and adjusted a pillow under his head.  
“John, I want you to promise me,” he repeated, still remembering that John hadn’t agreed to anything. “I want you to-” he gasped again, holding the side of his rib cage tightly. He took a few deep calming breaths before continuing. “I want you to leave, I don’t want to put you through this again.”

John let out a sigh, kneeling on the floor beside the bed with a groan, pain shooting up his leg. “I can’t just leave you here. Remember what I’ve been saying this whole time? About not wanting you to be alone? If this is an issue of privacy, then I can shut the door and wait outside until you’re done, but I’m not leaving you. I’ve already seen this happen once and it doesn’t change anything. I’m going to be fine, Sherlock. I promise. And so are you.”

The doctor took Sherlock’s lack of remark on the matter of him staying as defeat in his argument. John would stay. If Sherlock wanted to be alone, he would grant him the privacy, but he wouldn’t go farther than just outside the room. “Good. Let me take the bandages off your arm. I don’t want pressure on it.” He explained, holding his hand out expectantly.

Sherlock held his arm out with a grunt, teeth clenched tightly in pain as his body twitched painfully.

John pressed his lips into a thin line, upset by seeing Sherlock in so much pain. He gently unhooked the bandages wrapped around Sherlock’s arm, unwinding them and tenderly removed the gauze. The skin was still bright red and scabbed in areas, although for the most part the stitches had dissolved. The skin was indented largely where John had not been able to replace much skin, and he ran his fingers over the closed wound gently, hoping it would stay sealed.

_It’s coming back in a year... It’s going to try and hurt him again. How can I protect him from something in his own mind?_

The doctor swallowed thickly, setting Sherlock’s arm back so it was resting on his stomach. “I’m going to need to check on this right after you change, understand?” he bit his lip, looking over his friend nervously and standing up, regretting leaving his cane in the living room. “I’ll be right outside, okay? Just call if you need me or... howl I guess?” He stood a moment before speaking again. “Good luck, Sherlock.” He said, although he couldn’t bring himself to smile. He gave his hand a squeeze before releasing it, walking out of the room with a heavy limp. He shut the door behind him and slid down against it, burying his face in his hands. _He’s okay, John. He’s been doing this all his life. He’s going to be fine._ His heart was pounding in his chest but he knew there was nothing he could do but sit and wait. It had been a long time since he’d felt this useless.

Sherlock on the other hand really didn’t want John anywhere near him when he transformed. A big factor being he didn’t want his friend to hear him scream. Well, he was just going to have to not scream, simple as that; but that was easier said than done.

Sherlock whimpered but managed to keep his mouth shut as his muscles started to stretch and re-stitch themselves to his enlarging bones. How long could he keep this up? He rolled himself over and buried his face deep into the pillow as he groaned out in pain. It was agonising but the constant reminder that John was just behind the door kept his mouth firmly shut. However the sudden jerk of a bone snapping in his wounded arm caused him to yell out loud, clutching it hurriedly.  
Part of John wanted to press his ear against the door and listen to everything even though he knew how upsetting it would be. He could hear Sherlock whimpering quietly and it took all of his strength to trust him and stay outside. However he nearly lost that strength when he heard Sherlock scream, breath catching in his throat, his hand darted to the doorknob. He gripped it tightly, cringing at every sound of snapping bone and tearing flesh. He prayed none of it was harmful and Sherlock wasn’t in trouble, but even so, what could he do? This was beyond his control. Sherlock was a werewolf. This was apparently normal for the detective.

The stifled cries became less and less and instead he heard heavy panting. It didn’t sound quite human, and the images of the black wolf made its way back into John’s mind once more. _Wolf. Sherlock. Think, John. He needs you. Sherlock needs you. Dammit, what are you waiting for?_ “Sherlock?” he said, voice frantic as he turned the knob and pushed the door open, knees feeling weak at what he saw. He didn’t know what he was expecting. It wasn’t as if Sherlock would still be, well... Sherlock; not on the outside at least. 

The massive creature coated in black fur, body thick and strong, now took up almost the entirety of Sherlock’s ridiculously sized bed. John made a weak, fearful sound, falling back against the open door as memories of the last full moon returned all at once.

_What if this isn’t him? Is this normal? Is this what usually happens?_

“Sh-Sher-” he tried to speak again but he couldn’t force any words out and he scrambled to sit down, sliding against the door onto the floor, eyes wide, knowing he would’ve fallen over if he had stayed standing much longer. He swallowed thickly, his throat feeling dry as he tried not to remember his previous encounter with this form – the slashing, the snarling, the growling.

“Sherlock...” he tried again, although it came out as a shaky whisper. He was too shocked by seeing the creature again to manage anything louder.

A black pointed ear swivelled in the direction of the shaky whisper that called his name. Sherlock opened his eyes, his moon-stone coloured eyes shining brightly against the black fur, only now realising his back was to John, maybe that was for the best? The fear in John’s voice made his heart ache, that was why he avoided people in this state. The edge of fear that lined his friend’s voice gave the detective all the information he needed. He slowly rolled off the bed, landing heavily on the floor as he tried to find his footing. He let out a low growl of pain as he became accustomed to his new form.

John jumped slightly when the wolf fell off the bed, the loud thump shaking the floor where he was seated. He swallowed thickly when he heard the low growl, waiting to be noticed, hoping that Sherlock wasn’t right when he’d been worried about hurting him. There was nothing John could do now though. If this wasn’t Sherlock after all, he might not make it out as lucky this time, cornered in a single room. The doctor leaned to the side slightly, trying to get a better glimpse of the creature, noticing how it was holding one of its front legs to its chest. He didn’t look like he was in excruciating pain at this point but John still worried about the carefully stitched skin. Whether Sherlock’s mind was present or not, this was his friend’s body; he couldn’t let the wolf hurt it. 

John held his breath when the wolf got onto its feet, padding slowly round the corner of the bed to face him at the other end on the room. He didn’t try to speak again, not sure anymore if he wanted to catch the wolf’s attention. When the wolf looked up, John stared into its eyes. It was odd; he could have sworn they were a sinister shade of yellow last time. He saw Sherlock’s brilliant eyes against the fur, clear blue and... he saw shame? The army doctor’s expression softened slightly, frowning when the wolf looked away and moved to the other side of the bed, curling up on the floor. “Sherlock?” John said quietly, although he didn’t move from his spot.

When he wasn’t greeted with a response, John forced himself off the floor and treaded lightly around the bed, staring at the wolf. John tilted his head to the side curiously, the wolf looked a thousand times less threatening like this; hiding his face between its front legs. It looked almost like it was trying to make itself look smaller. He paused cautiously when he saw a large pink tongue flick out. Pressing his lips into a thin line, “Hey...” he whispered, bending down to kneel on the floor, inching closer to the creature while keeping a safe distance. John looked at its face, trying to look for an obvious sign that this was truly his best friend but his thoughts were too scattered to tell the difference. He saw the wolf begin to lick at his arm, cringing. “Don’t--!” John said without thinking, not wanting Sherlock’s am to get infected or hurt. 

The sudden sharp noise of alarm on John’s behalf caused Sherlock to flinch and his highly sensitive ears to ring sorely, his ears fell flat against his skull as he sent John a look of annoyance.

John clasped a hand over his mouth when he saw the wolf flinch, watching his ears twitch. He cut himself off immediately, taking in a breath and holding up his hands defensively. “I-I’m sorry.” he spoke in a much quieter tone as he watched Sherlock continue to lick his wound. He was disappointed not to receive an answer to his question at first, but that soon changed to worry. “Sherlock,” he repeated, frown deepening. He lifted a hand, about to reach out to Sherlock before he pulled it back, a sad expression on his face. 

Sherlock glanced at John’s incoming hand, wondering what he was trying to do. Was he trying to pet him? However when the hand recoiled, Sherlock looked away sadly, confirming John’s fear of him. Sherlock turned his head away as he made an attempt to get up, stumbling a bit on his injured leg.

“Hey, hey, easy.” John protested when the wolf tried to stand, although he still did not interfere. He swallowed anxiously when the wolf plopped down on the floor once more, noticing how it hurt to use its injured leg. The wolf almost seemed upset and seeing it like this was nearly as frightening as seeing him as this giant beast. It was still Sherlock, right? Sherlock never showed his emotions, especially if he was upset or sad. The man he knew would never admit to such an emotion. As much as he wanted to comfort his friend, he couldn’t risk touching the wolf until he was certain it was safe. It was vulnerable with its injured arm. John knew that he had to treat the situation with the same care as if he was approaching a potentially dangerous and injured animal in the wild. He set his hand back down on his knee, lowering his head to look at the wolf’s face, looking into the blue eyes, Sherlock’s eyes. “Sherlock...” he said slowly, getting down low, not wanting to be seen as any sort of threat if this wasn’t his friend. “Is that... is that you? Can you understand me?” his voice was slow and quiet.

Sherlock frowned at John’s question. Of course it was him, John wouldn’t be this close to him if it wasn’t; his teeth would be around his neck. Sherlock met John’s eyes and gave a small nod.

John let out a breath and slumped visibly when Sherlock answered his question. “Jesus,” John gasped. “Why didn’t you say something?” he responded quickly, shaking his head, not thinking twice before scooting closer to his friend.

_This is him. This is Sherlock._

John thought about the scream he had heard, the sickening sound of Sherlock’s body rearranging itself, tearing him apart. And he’d left him. He had dropped him on his bed and just left him to it. “You’re hurt” he remembered, touching Sherlock’s leg gently, avoiding the injured area. _Christ, he’s monstrous. How the hell did he get so big?_

Sherlock didn’t approve of John placing a hand on his leg; he didn’t want any more care. He made his point clear by moving his arm closer towards himself and growled softly under his breath, without baring his teeth to enforce his dissatisfaction. 

It was odd. All the images of the monster that had tried to kill him that had passed through John’s memory were terrifying. That thing had tried to kill him, and now it was Sherlock. He was wary and still felt a bit lightheaded, meeting the creature again, but it didn’t overshadow his desire to take care of the man he knew was inside. “Will you stop it?” John glared when Sherlock growled at him after he moved his front leg away. “We agreed beforehand, you have to at least let me take a look.” He gestured for Sherlock to let him see the arm, raising his eyebrows. “Chances are I won’t even have to touch it. I just have to know if it’s bleeding or not.”

Sherlock let out a snort from his black nose before finally extending his arm for John to look at.

“Yes, yes, I know you’re mentally insulting me.” he waved off as he took Sherlock’s arm carefully, surprised by the thickness of it. His mass wasn’t just fur, there were large bulging muscles beneath it; he was strong. “Right, um,” he mumbled, struggling to find the wound beneath the thick fur. “I’m going to go ahead and assume you wouldn’t let me anywhere near you with a razor, huh?”

Sherlock bristled at John’s suggestion.

“Yeah, yeah, I thought as much.” He smirked. “I guess a veterinarian might be better at the moment.” The doctor saw a tiny spot of red and stopped, only slightly able to see the discoloured skin beneath the fur. He was in awe of how seamlessly it seemed to transfer to Sherlock’s wolf body, only opening slightly around a scabbed area; easing his worry of any serious injuries. He had been expecting the worst. John touched it gently, wiping the spot of blood. “Looks good.” He said with a relieved smile, brushing the fur back in place, trailing his fingers softly to Sherlock’s paw, tilting his head. It was an odd hybrid of both human and canine, thumbs still present, but with pads along his fingers and palms. Much bigger than John’s human hands, which were fairly small. And Sherlock had claws, large ones at that; definitely enough to do some damage. 

_But he won’t hurt me. This is Sherlock._

He felt the need to keep reminding himself. He set Sherlock’s arm down again, patting his back. 

Sherlock had to admit: he’d never been petted before. The soft feeling of John’s hand running down the top of his head and down his neck was divine; eyes closing unconsciously and tail wagging; he wasn’t too sure if he should be enjoying it .

“I don’t want you walking on it, though.” John spoke. “Doubt you’d want to, it hurts doesn’t it? Probably because you’ve not been putting your full weight on it when you’re normal.” He sighed, taking a moment in his more relaxed state to get a good look at him. Sherlock had his eyes closed but what was that beating against the wall behind him? He turned his head, blinking in surprise at Sherlock’s wagging tail. “Well.” He started, looking back to his friend. “You certainly didn’t do that last time. It’s... wow. It’s really you isn’t it?” he said, as if surprised. “You're still you. No separate entity embedded in your brain that wants to hurt me?” he asked, offering a nervous smile while he continued to dig his fingers into the fur on the back of Sherlock’s neck, noticing that he seemed to enjoy it. He couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at Sherlock’s tail wagging. It looked especially odd on this body, since he didn’t quite look like he was a complete wolf either. And it was _Sherlock_. Even so, it was almost endearing, despite the wolf’s potentially frightening appearance.

Sherlock let out a growl that could only be described as something similar to a cat’s purr. It was a much deeper sound and if it had not been heard within this current scenario, it could have been taken as something quite threatening. But with Sherlock’s tail beating away happily and his eyes closed contently, it was clearly a sign of enjoyment. However, the enjoyment soon ended as Sherlock realised what he was doing and snapped out of his daydream, shaking his head out of John’s grasp causing the tailing wagging and purring to cease.

John rolled his eyes when Sherlock twisted his head away, his bloody pride. “Oh, come on. You don’t have to pretend you don’t like it. I can see straight through that. I can imagine that feels nice, with all that fur.” He smirked. 

Sherlock ignored him and attempted to get onto his feet once more before making his way towards the door.

John’s gentle smile vanished when Sherlock made his way towards the door. “Sherlock, hey...” he called as he too got up with a grunt and hurried after him. “Sherlock,” he repeated, grabbing his shoulder, noticing how tall Sherlock was for an animal, even on all fours. John wasn’t the tallest man, he knew that, and Sherlock’s head reached to his mid upper arm. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock was somewhat slouching and staying low to the ground, cradling his arm to his chest. “Sherlock,” John tried again as the wolf shrugged his hand off and made his way through the kitchen towards the living room. “At least respond to me, Sherlock!” John called from the doorway with a frustrated tone. 

Sherlock let out a breath through his nose and rounded on himself so he was facing John again. Sherlock stared at John from across the kitchen, his face conveying very little emotion.

John sighed at the look he was receiving, leaning against the door frame he watched Sherlock stare at him. “What?” he asked after a minute of silence as he raised his eyebrows defensively. He thought it was difficult to read Sherlock at the best of times but this was even harder. The tail wagging and ear movements had been helpful in understand how Sherlock was feeling beforehand but now he was completely still. He couldn’t even tell if Sherlock was thinking at all. “Did I make you mad or something? Are you angry with me?”

Sherlock let out another breath out his nose, shaking his large head gently as he sat down. There were traces of embarrassment along with shame clouding his eyes. And then it all suddenly clicked in John’s head.

“Oh...” John breathed, shoulder’s slouching. “You can’t talk...” John sighed, running his tongue over his lips. He took a few steps closer to him, scanning his face, wishing he could get some form of knowledge from it. He hesitated a moment before kneeling down in front of him again, despite the fact that when Sherlock was seated back like that, he was a bit taller. John didn’t mind, really. It felt odd looking down at Sherlock when it was always the other way around. “When something is wrong, I don’t want you to just get up and leave anymore.” he reached out and touched his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. “You come to me, okay? It’s not going to get better if you keep running away from it. I’m learning. And I know I still have a heck of a lot more to learn about werewolves and your world but you have to help me understand – it’s the only way I can help.”

Sherlock dipped his head to look at his feet; John was right again - John was always right when it mattered the most. Sherlock gave a small nod before placing his muzzle under John’s chin and giving him a small nudge upwards.

John smiled at Sherlock’s response, he was a lot easier to persuade him in this form compared to when he was human. “Right, now that that’s settled what do you say to some dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always constructive criticism and feedback are always appreciated!


	9. Dinner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days?! Christmas must be coming up ;)

“I wasn’t sure what you could eat when you’re like this, so I got a few things at the shops earlier.” John stated as he got up from the floor and went to inspect the cupboards. “There’s your usual snacks in there, don’t know if you’d want those later or-”

However John was interrupted by Sherlock who had trotted over beside him and had hauled himself up onto his hind legs to reach the cupboards that lined the top of the walls, giving his nose a good rummage through the cupboards, knocking some tins and packets out as he went.

“No, no, _no_! Paws off the counter,” the blonde protested, rushing to try and push Sherlock’s front paws off the work surface before grumbling under his breath as he bent down to pick up the various items that Sherlock had knocked out the cupboard.

After being pushed from the counter top, Sherlock’s nose led him to the fridge. His breathing deepened and sped up as his nose pushed against the rim of the fridge, smelling something delightfully delicious. Sherlock scrambled at the edge of the fridge in an attempt to try and open it.

“Stop. Look, stop! Don’t go wrecking the flat. If you want something I’ll get it for you, alright?” John stated as he pushed Sherlock’s side, the detective’s size and weight making it extremely difficult to move him. “Why are you so heavy?” John muttered through a clenched jaw, leaning harder against Sherlock in an attempt to move him. “Move!”

John opened the fridge door hesitantly, and of course, Sherlock was again immediately up on two legs, practically throwing himself into the fridge. John took a few steps back, not wanting to get in the way of a hungry werewolf as Sherlock poked about in the fridge, again knocking a few things out in his search. John scrubbed a hand over his face, knowing he’d have to clean up the mess of smashed milk bottles and cartons of leftover takeaway later. 

Sherlock sniffed at the various body parts that were being stored in the fridge before finding the source of the smell he wanted. It was a piece of raw beef that he’d forgotten about; he had been planning to use it to experiment the rate of bacteria production. He practically had his entire head in the fridge, and his paws too, to try and retrieve the meat. 

John was worried he’d knock the whole fridge over the way the wolf was acting. “No, I mean it, Sherlock. Stop it. God, look what you’re doing.” he complained looking at the mess, feeling tired already. When Sherlock finally pulled his head out, John grimaced at the hunk of raw meat wedged tightly between the wolf’s teeth; still bright red and dripping juices onto the floor. “What the hell is that?” John asked, knowing with Sherlock it could be anything. He certainly didn’t bring it home, nor hide it in the back of the fridge, unpackaged and unprotected. He just prayed it wasn’t a piece of leg or something of the sort. Although it already seemed Sherlock was gnawing contently on it in the living room. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get it from him if he tried and Sherlock didn’t look keen to drop it any time soon.

The army doctor made his way into the living room, eyes fixed on Sherlock as he plopped down quietly onto the sofa. He sat silently watching Sherlock gnaw and tear at the raw meat, both fascinated and disgusted. It was a reality check in a way.

_This is Sherlock. This is who he is. Sherlock is an animal. A real, inhuman, animal._

“You’re going to make yourself sick with that...” he mumbled. “Whatever you like, I guess...” he said cautiously. “Just so you know, you’re getting the carpet cleaned tomorrow. Mrs. Hudson won’t like the blood stains on her carpets nor scratches on her counters either.” He scolded. “Good job you organised for her to see her sister...”

Sherlock was oblivious to the conversation John was trying to create, despite Sherlock inability to converse. The wolf in front of John was totally consumed by the meat at this point in time.

“Well I see you’re... um... you’re acting a bit more wolfy.” John said casually, although there was apprehension within his voice.

Sherlock stopped mid bite, pausing for a second before suddenly removing his jaw from the raw meat below him - he quickly realised what he had been doing. He hastily stood up and made a noise of disgust backing away from the meat. He had lost himself to the smell of the meat – this was his time not the wolf’s.

John tired to smile through his comment but once was again greeted by an upset Sherlock. This was different though, he didn’t just look upset, he looked almost frantic – panicked even. “Sherlock, hey,” he tried to say something, pausing when Sherlock began to wipe his face on the carpet in panic. The army doctor furrowed his brow, worried.

_“I shouldn’t have commented on it, dammit. I should have just let him be._ ”

The look on the detective’s face only made John more concerned. Past all the fur, he looked completely disgusted with himself and quite afraid. “Sherlock calm down.” John instructed as he slowly knelt in front of him. “I didn’t mean it in a... horrible way.” He tried to assure. “It’s good, Sherlock, really, it’s a good thing! This is how you should be acting, right?” he glanced back at the torn up remains of the meat and at the dark smudges it had left on the rug. 

John’s attempt to comfort Sherlock did nothing to ease his troubled mind- John’s word’s just angered him. Why did he have to be like this? Why couldn’t he be normal? At least normal within his own species? Even there, in his world, he wasn’t normal – he had been the defaulted pup, the pup that couldn’t control himself and even now as an adult couldn’t.  
“You’re a _wolf_ , Sherlock. That’s okay.” John continued. “It isn’t supposed to be bad; you aren’t supposed to hate it. You can’t pretend like that part of you doesn’t exist – it does and frankly I think that’s amazing.”

John knew he was rambling and he was praying that it was helping. He wanted to help Sherlock desperately but knowing how was different. “If you want my opinion, the full moon is so you can let the wolf out. You’re not supposed to try and lock it away completely. If you do that, it builds up. Little things like that-” he gestured to the meat. “-help. You have to share with the wolf.”

Sherlock stared into John’s eyes, looking deep into them as he spoke more words of reassurance, words that were supposed to make him feel better – they weren’t. His breathing increased and his jaw had slowly set in anger. Sherlock snorted roughly through his nose and turned his head away from John’s before his body followed. He started to pace, his anger evident in every footstep.

John could see the anger bubbling up within Sherlock and he couldn’t understand why. He didn’t know why Sherlock hated what he was. He didn’t understand why Sherlock had always fought so hard to keep it inside, fought so hard to be human. He wished it made sense to him but it didn’t. John cared for him more than he himself was comfortable with. He wanted Sherlock to know how he felt. He wanted to force him to understand, force him to listen. He’d learned long ago to suppress this feeling, and it rarely flared up, but he was angry. Angry that Sherlock was so lost, angry at how he’d been treated, how he expected to be treated, how he pushed the wolf away and caged it until it forced its way out and attacked. It was so wrong. “Sherlock-” John spoke as he tried to interrupt the manic pacing however Sherlock’s head snapped sharply in his direction, greeting John’s voice with a growl, lips pulled back in a snarl, fangs intentionally being flashed before he continued to pace silently.

The sight frightened John. That was a warning. He knew what Sherlock was saying and he knew Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing, how he looked. Sherlock was mad. Sherlock didn’t want to understand. He didn’t want peace. The idea of being a wolf and being happy was unfathomable to him. John knew it was possible. It had to be. Still, he flinched at the sound, stiffening. “Is that a threat?” John asked shakily after a moment, looking his friend over sadly. 

Sherlock stopped pacing, his ears pricking up.

John let out a breath when Sherlock stopped, his erect ears proof that he had been heard. “Are you going to bite me? For trying to help you?” his heart felt heavy.

Something struck in Sherlock’s heart. Of course he wasn’t, he would never intentionally harm John. He slowly turned his head to look at him, everything was just wrong. This was why he was supposed to keep this a secret; this was why John was never supposed to know. Sherlock lowered his head as he slowly made his way back to his room, shutting the door quietly with his head.

“Sherlock- wait...” John let out an exasperated sigh as he watched the door close behind Sherlock but the doctor didn’t follow him - maybe it was best just to let him be at the moment. It had hurt John to say what he had said, hurt him to be faced with the fact that maybe Sherlock didn’t want his help. Sherlock needed to know that the way he had acted was normal and should be treated as such. He couldn’t let him believe that his natural behaviour was wrong – he shouldn’t have said anything. The army doctor let out another defeated sigh as he sunk low into his chair; all he could do now was wait until morning...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always constructive criticism/comments are always appreciated! I love hearing what you all have to say!


	10. Early Morning Apologises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know... I'm terrible at updating and it's short, I'm sorry.

It was in the early hours of the morning that John awoke to the sound of quiet whining. The doctor had unintentionally fallen asleep in his chair with a stiff neck as proof. He grimaced as he sat up; rubbing at his neck as he stood and stretched- it was only then that he was fully aware of the whining coming from down the corridor. He frowned as he checked his watch, cursing as he noticed the time; the pinkish light of dawn was just barely shining through the curtains.

Without further thought, John strode quickly over towards Sherlock’s door only hesitating as his hand hovered over the door handle. Sherlock had wanted his privacy last night but John couldn’t stand the thought of him suffering on his own; especially after their falling out last night. The doctor gently pushed down on the door handle and opened it a fraction.

Through the gap in the door he could see the wolf huddled on the floor beside the bed, his body twitching as it prepared for the transformation. John’s eyes widened as Sherlock’s body jerked and his grasp on the door handle tightened slightly, debating mentally whether he should properly enter or not. He knew there was no way he could brace himself for what he was about to see, no matter how many times he was going to witness it in the future he didn’t think he’d ever be ready.

Of all the people John had witnessed in agony in his days at war, he could have argued that Sherlock looked worse. The supernatural aspect of this only added to it, every change in Sherlock’s body bordering on impossible, something that a human would never expect to see. He could see Sherlock’s body compressing itself, shrinking, crushing the expanded organs inside until they too changed to fit. He couldn’t bring himself to look away, no matter how horrifying it was. His bones made sickening cracking sounds as they snapped into place, rearranging themselves, swollen muscles seemed to dissolve under his skin, all the while the black fur thinned all over his body - except for the select human places where it was meant to exist. 

Sherlock looked hideously inhuman at some points, which frightened John, the mixed sounds of his canine voice and his human voice fading together in quiet shrieks and yelps – he feared the lowered volume was for the doctor’s benefit. The nearer Sherlock got to being human, the more odd he looked, deformed almost, thin black hairs covering his skin unevenly, and a practically bald muzzle protruding from his face. It was worse, having to see Sherlock’s expression so clearly, the pain he was in, even though he wasn’t recognizable yet as the human John knew. Eventually the muzzle shrunk back, along with the tail, ears becoming rounded once more slipping back into place. John was too shocked to realize it was over, staring at the now human Sherlock, exposed and vulnerable looking. It was terrible. 

The detective was shaking and breathing heavily, recovering from the pain, eyes teary beneath the closed lids. He stiffly reached up with a quiet groan and pulled his duvet down off his bed to wrap it around himself as he slowly propped himself up against the edge of his bed.

John realized he wasn’t in control of his body anymore as he had ended up at Sherlock’s side without realising it. He looked at his hands, one on Sherlock’s shoulder and one on the other’s hand, which was clinging tightly to the duvet cover. He blinked a few times, no longer the massive paw it had been a few moments ago with long claws. He forced himself to look at Sherlock’s face again, before hurriedly grabbing another blanket and throwing it over the detective’s pale form – not wanting to move him from the ground just yet. 

The detective flinched at the sudden addition of soft weight to his body and groaned once more at the movement, his muscles still stiff and aching.

Sherlock seemed almost unconscious, in a way, he was breathing but seemed far from aware. The groan would have been a comfort if Sherlock had been in this state for any other reason. 

“John?” he breathed, finally opening his eyes to look at the doctor painfully.

John heard his name, barely audible and stopped, listening to the breathy quiet words.

“I’m sorry.” The detective breathed.

John let out a sob-like laugh, although he was not crying. “ _You’re_ sorry? Why are you sorry?” he asked frantically.

“It was wrong of me...”

John frowned in confusion. “What was?”

“I bared my teeth at you. I frightened you.”

John breathed out a small chuckle. “It takes a lot more than Sherlock Holmes baring his teeth to frighten me.” He joked. The doctor understood why Sherlock had done what he did. He was frustrated and probably wasn’t used to have company during his transformation, so was most likely not accustomed to a human watching his every movement and action. If John hadn’t had been there, he suspected that Sherlock wouldn’t have realised half the ‘wolfish’ things he had done. Maybe John had been wrong about making Sherlock stay in the flat, what if he needed his space, what if he needed space to just be a wolf and not the human John tried to see in him. God, _his flatmate was a werewolf_

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this...” Sherlock continued. “You shouldn’t have found out.”

John furrowed his brow in confusion. “I’m glad I know... I’m glad that you don’t have to sneak off anywhere alone now.”

“You still shouldn’t have to deal with this – you still shouldn’t have found out.” he repeated weakly.

John looked at the detective with a sad expression. “You’ve been doing this your whole life alone, I think it’s time you had somebody by your side.”

Sherlock was silent; too weak and sore to respond. Sherlock was used to being alone, alone protected him. He wasn’t accustomed to having somebody close during his transformations, Mycroft never stayed with him, nobody ever did. Mycroft never _helped_ him – at least not in the way Sherlock needed. Sherlock needed somebody to help him see that he wasn’t a freak, that his mutation wasn’t all bad. He needed somebody to believe in him, to believe that he wasn’t a monster... 

Taking a deep breath, the detective tried to hoisted himself up onto the bed but with a deep groan, he ended up falling back against the side of the bed; muscles flexing stiffly as he held the duvet to his chest. “I’m fine.” Sherlock panted weakly at John’s sudden look of concern.

“Just relax... Here, let me help you onto the bed, make you a bit more comfy yeah?” John suggested as he helped Sherlock to his feet. “I’ll get you some warm pads for your muscles.” He stated, noticing the stiffness of Sherlock’s body and his newly compressed muscles as he lowered him onto the mattress. “And some tea...” John said under his breath, mentioning it more for himself than anything as he went to leave the room.

“John,” Sherlock called after him.

The doctor stuck his head back through the door, “Yeah?” he called back with a raised brow.

“I’m not used to this.” The detective stated. “I’m not used to having somebody with me when I change.”

John knew this of course and he completely understood. “We’re both not used to this.” he reassured with a smile as they stared at each other in silence for a short moment. “Let me go get your tea.”

When John returned, heat pads and tea in hand, he was initially concerned to find Sherlock unconscious; wondering if something other than exhaustion has caused him to pass out. He put the tea and heat pads on Sherlock’s dresser and hurried to his side, taking his pulse. The doctor let out a sigh of relief when he felt the soft flutter through the detective’s wrist, signalling that he was in fact alive and would be fine. John stood still for a moment, examining him. He had tried to see Sherlock in the wolf, tried to see similarities between the different bodies. His eyes were the same, and his face, oddly, seemed to be similarly structured – apart from the thick muzzle. His fur had been the same dark colour of his hair as well, and for the most part, his personality unchanged. He could see the wolf in Sherlock, through the expression on his face; he always looked the same when he was asleep, for some reason. After Mycroft had shot him and the angry wolf side had subsided, he had been left with a sleeping Sherlock, even in his wolf form he could recognise that. He smiled a bit, brushing the curl’s out of Sherlock eyes, petting his hair like he’d done the wolf all those hours ago.

He figured he ought to get to work on helping him, so he retrieved the heat pads, slipping them where he could in the position Sherlock was in, on the main muscles that he remembered being affected the most. He left once again only to get his med kit, cleaning the tiny tear on Sherlock’s arm and wrapping it. He was tired, yes, but he didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone, so he sat on the other side of the bed to keep an eye on him, calming himself by stroking the man’s hair beside him. He knew Sherlock would never allow it but somehow John couldn’t seem to help himself from imagining Sherlock wagging his tail in silent approval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I really dislike this chapter but I had to post something! I hate the way I've written John, he's so OOC in my opinion but I've never been good at writing John >.< Ohhhhh weeelll...
> 
> As always, constructive criticism and feedback are appreciated greatly!


	11. Not Again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm incredibly sorry for the insane time gap between when I last posted, there's a whole story around that which I'll explain at the end but if anyone at all is still interested in this story you should all know that I've made the executive decision to delete the chapters surrounding the case. Personally I felt it was just a massive side track from the story I am trying to tell. Maybe I'll write it up again one day and publish it separately.
> 
> Until then, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

It had been several months since Sherlock’s first transformation in front of John and it was fair to say that the doctor had begun to grow fairly used to Sherlock’s lycanthropy. He had nearly memorised the pattern of Sherlock’s change after witnessing it roughly six times; it was still horrifying to see his friend in so much pain but the doctor had learnt how to keep himself together through it all. He had to keep his brain turned on to process it and not allow shock to overtake him, and with that in mind he was able to get through it with little more than a look of extreme pity and worry. However Sherlock’s mood had not improved much from the first time John had been with him, but it didn’t mean John didn’t try to change that. He still encouraged Sherlock to let himself go for a bit, be the wolf that his body reflected, but Sherlock seemed even more resigned that ever. John even bought a few pounds of raw meat every full moon, hoping he could get Sherlock in a good mood, but he rarely ate it. When he did, the detective would drag it off to his room and eat it quietly, denying John the opportunity to watch. 

John had made plans last month time to bring Sherlock out to the countryside where he could run and hunt and do whatever it was wolves instinctively did, but Sherlock hadn’t been enthusiastic about the idea and insisted they stay at home; now that he could do so freely. It was worrisome, to say the least. John could practically see the wolf inside him growing restless as Sherlock suppressed it so perfectly; it scared him for what was to come the following year.

At the current moment Sherlock was stooped over a dead body as John and Lestrade looked on from a small distance as the sun slowly started to dim in the sky. Despite the detective working a case, Sherlock’s sulky mood was still apparent and was contagious as John stood stiff next to Lestrade. John couldn’t really blame Sherlock for his current state; he now understood that the mood swings came hand in hand with Sherlock’s ‘time-of-the-month’ – it was just biological chemistry.

Sherlock stood up after a few minutes of examining the body and turned to address Lestrade. “Check the cupboard in the kitchen again for a hidden compartment, you’ll find the murder weapon. As for the killer-” he stopped to quickly check something on his phone before continuing. “-you should find him two blocks down the road in a pub located next to a tailor.” 

John sighed as he watched Donovan direct unkind words towards Sherlock as he gave directions to her and the other officers, Anderson was on holiday, _thank God_ \- John didn’t want anything else worsening the detective’s already sullen mood. He took a sip of the cheap coffee catered for the Yarders, wrinkling his nose at the lukewarm temperature, tossing it into a nearby bin.

“Is everything okay between you two?” Lestrade suddenly asked, despite John’s best effort to keep conversation to a minimum. “I mean, Sherlock just seems to be acting a bit... well, let us say more weird than usual.”

“ _Ah shit._ ” the doctor thought to himself, knowing he wasn’t a fantastic liar (or at least, Sherlock didn’t think so). “Yeah, yes. He’s fine... Just his damn superiority complex thing, it’s nothing. He’s just a bit wired is all, cutting back on the fags, you know how he gets.” 

“John!”

The blonde cringed slightly when he heard his name being shouted at him and before he was even able to respond Sherlock was hurrying towards them.

“Need I remind you that I have an experiment that needs to be taken out the oven in about...” he glanced at his phone briefly. “- three hours?”

John eyes widened when Sherlock gave him the time frame, he cursed under his breath, checking his watch. “Yes, ah, sorry Greg, we best be off – you know how OCD he is about his experiments” he chuckled nervously.

“Jesus, Sherlock, what did I tell you?” John snapped when they were out of ear shot. “I told you not to take a case today, I _told_ you! I hate to say it but your weird pre-change quirks got noticed by Greg.

“Who?”

“Lestrade!” John tutted.

“So what if I act a little strange?” Sherlock defended. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“You weren’t just acting strange, Sherlock. For God’s sake, I know your sense of smell gets better closer to a change, but you could have been a little less obvious when you were _sniffing the dead body._ ”

“You never used to mind those ‘quirks’, as you so put it, before you knew; you’re just hyper-aware of them because you know what they are now.” Sherlock dismissed. “It’s not a big deal.”

“That’s beside the point, Sherlock. You can’t do this! We’re barely going to make it home in time; you need to be more careful!” John argued back, sighing as Sherlock led him down an alleyway – he really wasn’t in the mood for one of Sherlock’s shortcuts. He just wanted to get home, he didn’t want to have to climb over any buildings or break into any flats on the way. The evening was bound to be difficult anyway; his only hope for getting through it would be a nice cuppa in his chair.

With the sun setting behind them and the alley way becoming increasingly darker by the second, Sherlock suddenly extended his arm in front of John to stop him. “Shh,” he commanded the doctor quietly. 

John stopped at Sherlock’s request, rolling his eyes before pushing down the detective’s arm in irritation and carrying on past him. _Sherlock and his bloody wolf senses. His stupid nose, ears, eyes..._ Suddenly, from out of the shadows a figure hit John hard on the back of his head; everything fading to black in an instant.

“John!” Sherlock yelled in panic as he ran towards the attacker only to be struck from behind as well. He stumbled forward, clutching the back of his head, looking for John ahead of him only to see him on the floor, clearly knocked out. “John,” he gasped as he scrambled drunkenly forward before another hit from the dark caused him to fall to the ground, the world around him started to blur and with one final blow the veil of unconsciousness swallowed him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story time: 
> 
> Guess who hasn't had great luck with computers recently? Me! So my computer completely died on me and I sent it of to get repaired and to fix it they basically had to scrub my computer clean and reboot it - no worries because I always backup my files on a hard drive. Only what are you suppose to do when your hard drive becomes corrupt... So the massive delay was due to me having to rewrite multiple chapters and get it the way I liked it again and ugh! It was just such an ordeal... it wasn't a fun at all.
> 
> So what's the moral of the story kids? Always have a backup of your backup.


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